


The poor man!

by Maracuya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Quiet Isle, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-02 22:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2827664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracuya/pseuds/Maracuya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was begun for the comment fic meme on LJ.<br/>The prompt was: Compassionate!Sansa: After having heard Sandor's sad story Sansa tries to be exceptionally nice to him giving favors, having talks and even some comforting touching included. Flabbergasted Sandor, suspicious Ned and indignant Arya.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [askim_vero](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=askim_vero).



> In one of the upcoming chapters there will be a reference to marital rape (Robert/Cersei).
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own my works of fanfiction/fanart. I do not profit from the stories or drawings, nor would I  
> ever seek to do so. All credit for characters, plot and settings go to the respective original author or artist.

Sansa couldn't get the story out of her head, and she wept into her pillow, long after Sandor Clegane had returned her to her chamber. Gods, what had the scarred warrior been forced to endure! To be burnt by your own brother...

Sansa tried to imagine Robb or Jon or even Theon doing something similarly disgusting to their siblings, but failed. She couldn't even envision Arya of being able to harm her in such a way, mutual loathing notwithstanding. How depraved was a man who was capable of scorching his baby brother over a trifle like a puppet?

And to see such a monster raised to the position of a knight... no wonder that the Hound was such a bitter man and always growling as if he were an escutcheon animal come to life!

 

"I need to help the poor man. Or at least to cheer him up. I'm sure the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone would approve of that. And a true lady would neither look at the Hound's scars nor would she be upset by his grumpy behaviour or his bad wording. Hm... - but what could I do?"

 

Sansa started to ponder various alternatives. 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was the second day of the Tournament of the Hand. Sandor was in his little tent and in the process of putting on his armour for the upcoming fights. Of course, the tent - unlike the impressive constructions of the noble bigwigs - was neither big nor high enough for his tall frame.

"Careful with that breastplate!" Sandor snarled at his squire Grayle, and the lad winced and nodded.

 

A gentle cough caused Sandor to look up. His eyes widened. Was he seeing things... despite not having drunk a drop of wine in the evening, so as to be fit today?

 

But no, he was sober, his mind was focused... and that blasted redhead of a Stark girl was standing in the entrance.

"Ser Sandor..."  
"I'm no ser. And since when do you intrude on men in their tents? Were you planning to see me naked before putting on my armour?"

Sansa Stark flushed bright red and made some spluttering sounds, like a bird you pressed under water. His squire didn't look much better than the lass.

 

He sighed and gave up.

"What is it, girl? What do you want? Chirp out what you have to tell me and be gone. I need to concentrate on the upcoming duels." 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Grayle wanted to sink into the ground. If he had not been a bastard, and if he had had a chance to squire for a real knight he would have done so, but as it was...

Gods, his master was behaving like a hog again! How could anyone talk to the most noble and beautiful Lady Sansa like that!? She was betrothed to Prince Joffrey after all, no less!

But then again - what was such a goddess doing here in such a lowly tent? He shrank into the background and pricked up his ears.

 

Lady Sansa said: "I wanted to thank you for walking me back home to my room yesterday evening, and I'd like to give you this."

She held out her open palm. Grayle craned his neck and was flustered. The young lady was presenting his master the head of an arrow.

 

The Hound stared at the token in disbelief as well.

"Seems like the pretty, air-headed girl has forgotten the shaft. Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised a mollycoddled maid wouldn't think of a shaft."

 

Grayle wanted to palm his face in shame, but he remained as still as a mouse.

 

"My Lord..."

"I'm NO LORD, girl!"

Lady Sansa was crimson in the face now.

"I... it's just... this piece has been blessed by a septon of the Warrior. It's supposed to be a talisman for your duels today. I just wanted to wish you good luck."

 

The Hound looked at the arrowhead like a girl would at a dirty worm.

"I spit on the Seven and the Faith. On gods in general. Religion is nothing but Sweetsleep for the masses."

On hearing this, Grayle watched Sansa's face fall, and her lip started to tremble.

"Oh... I'm sorry if...," she managed to say before Clegane interrupted her: "Give it to me anyway."

And with those words, he snatched the token from her fingers.

 

Lady Sansa's eyes were a little teary now, but she still sported a shy smile.

"I'll watch you from the king's box. I hope you'll ride well today."

The Hound grunted.

The young lady looked as if she might have wanted to say something more, but then, she turned around and left.

 

Grayle didn't get it. A present from the prince's fiancée for this scarred, lowly...?

"If you breathe as much as a single word about this to someone else, squire, I'll crush your skull with my bare hands."

Clegane was staring at him now, and his slate gaze was piercing. Deadly.

 

Grayle breathed in.

"My lips are sealed."

He wasn't suicidal, was he? And he knew the Hound's words were no empty threat.

With trembling hands, the squire continued to fasten his master's breastplate.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa was taking her seat in the box of the king. She tried to look cool and temperate, but her core was still quivering from her encounter with the Hound. The man always had that effect on her - only before his admission about the nature of his scars Sandor Clegane's behaviour would have scandalized her. Now, however, things were different.

 

"He says he hates knights - and yet, he's participating in this tournament. He says he abhors religion - but he takes my sacred gift. There's more to him than meets the eye. Will he keep my talisman close to him?"

 

The next moment, Ser Loras made his appearance. The day before, Sansa had only had eyes for the good-looking knight.

Now, she thought: "It's weird. The Knight of Flowers is adorable, granted. And he looks splendid... but my reactions to Sandor Clegane are far more intense, even if they're also much more troubled."

 

"Apple?"

A hand with a piece of fruit appeared in front of Sansa's face. The voice and the offer both came from Arya.

Sansa arched her eyebrows. What sort of fit of friendliness was this all of a sudden?

Hmmm... well, there was no reason to be unfriendly towards at the moment, was there? Thus, Sansa acted like a lady and took the apple with a smile and a polite nod.

 

Her father, Lord Eddard, who had been sporting a sour face all day, noticed the gesture and flashed them a small smile; coming from him, these days it was an even rarer facial expression than usually, so Sansa took up the chance and beamed back at her father.

 

The good moment didn't last, however, for Arya leaned forward and whispered into her ear: "What on earth did you do in the Hound's tent?"

Sansa froze.

"You've been spying!"

"It's not spying if someone's behaviour is plain to see for everyone."

Sansa rolled up her eyes.

"I only had to give him something back he had lost when he walked me to my room yesterday evening."

 

Arya narrowed her eyes.

"You could have sent a servant with the object. Really, if it wasn't the ugly, coarse monster of a Hound and if you were not besotted with that stupid prince of yours, I'd think you're lying, because he's your sweetheart."

 

Sansa choked on a piece of apple and coughed. Her father leaned over and patted her back.

When he had resumed his former position Sansa hissed at her sister: "Joffrey is my betrothed! HE is my sweetheart. Arya, you must be mad to assume..."

Sansa shook her head.

 

Arya rubbed her nose.

"You've already sounded more enamoured with Joffrey. Would be nice for a change, if you finally came to your senses - and would NOT lose them to the Hound again right away."

"Arya! You're so stupid! I don't..."

"Ooooh!" Septa Mordane called from their other side. "Here comes the Mountain that Rides! What a huge man. And such an infamous reputation."

 

A shiver crept down Sansa's spine. This was the man who had caused the Hound's burns. Now that she knew the truth. Ser Gregor looked, in fact, uglier than his brother... 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sandor gazed up at the king's box before his first duel, pretending it was a greeting for the royal family... while from the corners of his eyes he looked at the little Stark girl. The arrowhead was wrapped into a piece of cloth and hidden under his armour; by now, it had warmed up from his skin.

He wanted to curse himself for being so bloody pathetic, and he had already dome so for telling her the story of his scars. Then again... no woman had ever given him anything without coin. That this beautiful, romantic - and naive - little bird had given him a token of her own accord was causing him some weird feelings that he could neither name nor understand. This, in it's turn, made him aggressive. Which was a good thing, considering that he was about to participate in a fight.

 

Stranger was in a foul mood, but focused, which was promising. The day before, Sandor had already won against Prince Renly, but now, he had to face a particularly good fighter: Ser Jaime Lannister.

Sandor would have preferred to have a joust against his brother Gregor, who was supposed to ride against Ser Loras Tyrell in the other semi-final. That way, it would have given him a chance to kill the big monster. Well, it could still come to this in the finale, if both Cleganes prevailed.

 

As could be expected, Ser Jaime was putting on a golden Lannister show.

"None of his bloody prancing will do him any good in a few moments," Sandor thought.

To his surprise, Lady Sansa didn't look half as impressed as she had done the day before... and she was, in fact, even looking in his direction. Weird, to say the least, but he had no time to ponder this.

His squire Grayle was done with his last preparations and handed Sandor the lance.

The Hound bent forward and whispered into Stranger's ear: "Well, boy, do you fancy a lion's fur?"

The stallion snorted and stomped his hoof. Sandor grinned; blood was whooshing in his ears.

 

He and Ser Jaime took up positions and waited for the king's sign. Fat Robert bellowed his command... and off they went, their horses kicking up sandy earth in the process. 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ned Stark was still against the tournament held in his name - well, not necessarily the event itself, but most of all the money wasted. Against his will, he felt some basic interest in the combatants, if only to find out where the individual fighting strengths lay.

 

It surprised him that the insufferable Hound was capable of besting Ser Jaime Lannister, and he made a mental note. This Clegane almost had a northern fighting style: clear-cut, economic, effective. As disgusting as the man was one had to respect his military aptitude.

Yet, it was strange when Ned noticed Sansa cheer for the Hound enthusiastically as soon as it became clear he had won against Ser Jaime.

 

He arched his eyebrow.

"I must say I wouldn't have expected you to root for this big ruffian, daughter," he said in what he hoped was a teasing voice.

 

Sansa blushed her sweetest shade of pink and stammered:"Why... father, of course I would! I mean, he's Joffrey's shield after all, isn't he?"

At that moment, the prince cut in: "Ser Jaime is my UNCLE, not a mangy cur. And he's a Lannister. HE would have deserved your support."

 

On hearing this, Ned chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, deep in thought. He saw Sansa cast down her eyes in embarrassment.

Damn, the more he got to know this golden-haired boy, the less he liked him. The prince was too much like his mother, and though Ned was disappointed by the man Robert had turned into Joffrey being dominated by his Lannister heritage was worse than any Baratheon core would have been.

Not for the first time, he was considering to end the betrothal. It was too obvious Joffrey despised his Sansa - only Ned was already having a difficult time with his two daughters, and Lady's death on the road was still wearing Sansa down. She was still dreaming of becoming queen, though, so he didn't want to destroy that prospect yet. And mayhaps the boy would still develop in an adequate way.

 

Lord Stark drummed his fingers on his thigh and told himself to return his focus to the tournament. Not one moment too soon.

"Ned, stop making such a sour face again! Your king commands it."

Eddard schooled his features and answered: "I'm not made for such a spectacle, I've told you so - and why."

In answer to that, Robert harrumphed and ordered another horn of beer.

 

On his other side, Sansa asked him meekly: "Father, do you think Ser Sandor will win the tournament, if he managed to best Ser Jaime?"

Ned weighed his head.

"Might be, though I'd rather hope it to be Ser Loras, rather than one of these Cleganes. Look, here comes his brother, the infamous Mountain."

 

Something about Sansa's vigorous nod gave Ned the impression she was rather approving of his assessment of the elder Clegane brother than of the hope that the Knight of Flowers could win the tournament. Ned scratched his beard. He wouldn't have known where to point his finger, but there was something odd about his sweet girl on this day. After another moment, however, he discarded the thought and assumed that she was simply too impressed by the splendour and excitement of the festivities.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa didn't understand herself any more. As soon as Joffrey had called his shield a "mangy cur" she had realised she didn't want "her" prince any more. She had remembered how Joffrey had called for the death of the direwolves on the Kingsroad, had realised all the things she hadn't wanted to see, the mistakes she had made... she wasn't able to push the truth aside any more.

Gods, and it hurt so much! For a moment, Sansa pressed a fist to her forehead.

 

She turned to her sister and whispered: "You know, Arya,,, you were so right."

Arya's head whipped around.

"Err, yes, sure – what exactly about?"

Sansa's eyes darted sideways, to where Joffrey was sitting, and back.

Arya's jaw dropped, and Sansa flushed bright red.

Her sister murmured back: "Whoa, you're mighty odd today, but to see you understand... Does that mean we could concoct plans under our blankets at night on how to pester that prick of a prince!? Like putting stink bombs into his boots?"

 

On hearing that, Sansa had a fit of laughter, which she couldn't suppress, though she desperately tried to do so – and the result was a series of very unladylike snorts. At least, Arya was uttering some sounds of levity as well.

Heads started to turn. Queen Cersei was wrinkling her nose, and so was Joffrey. Lord Stark, however, looked flabbergasted at seeing his girls united in merriment. Septa Mordane started to hiss at them.

Sansa felt strange: while she was embarrassed about behaving so improperly she was also relieved in a way.

 

She was only able to turn serious again when she realised the Mountain had finished his preparations for the joust with Ser Loras. A chill ran down her spine, and she sent a silent prayer to the Warrior, asking him that the Knight of Flowers should not fall prey to the mighty blow of the giant monster that had scorched his baby brother so many years ago.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When Gregor killed his horse, because it had been distracted in the joust, Sandor wasn't surprised, unlike the rest of the gaping crowd. When his brother attacked Ser Loras, because the knight had played foul and ridden a mare in heat so as to reach this distraction, the Hound had already expected as much. What did confuse him, however, was that all of a sudden he himself was back in the arena to defend the Tyrell lad, who was about to get butchered by Sandor's giant sibling.

"I want to have my revenge, is all," he thought, refused to ponder whether a pair of very blue eyes was looking at him and started to swing his sword.

 

The king's call ended Sandor's vicious fight with his brother, though the Hound was loath to let Gregor live. Yet, he was too well-trained a dog not to obey his monarch at once.

The next step made him feel queasy: the Knight of Flowers declared he yielded to him as a sign of gratitude for saving his life. The fat purse full of gold dragons Sandor received felt good in his paw and jingled, but the applause and the cheering of the crowd left him... somewhat queasy, not being accustomed to positive reactions as he was.

From the corners of his eyes he saw Lady Sansa stand in the king's box, clapping frenetically and beaming at him as if he were her personal bloody knight. His stomach did a somersault then, but he kept his face stoic.

 

"And now," Ser Loras called out to everyone,"the winner of the tourney must crown a Queen of Love and Beauty!"

Sandor froze.

"Shit! I'll kill that bugger!" he thought.

He was handed a woven crown of flowers, which looked small in comparison to his paws.

Sandor's brain went blank, apart from another "fuck", and had he not been sweating from the fight he would have started to do so at that very point. He looked at the king's box. Fat Robert was encouraging him to pick someone while Cersei's face was intense in its expressionlessness, Lord Eddard was pinching the bridge of his nose, and all the others were staring at him with absolute curiosity. Some more daring people were starting to shout pieces of advice at him. The voices turned into an angry buzz in Sandor's ears.

Then, however, a thought crossed his mind and he knew what he had to do. His mouth twitched.

He walked over to the king's box. The crowd fell silent, and it would have been possible to cut the curiosity with a knife.

 

Finally, Sandor stood in front of Eddard Stark and rasped: "Lord Hand, this tourney was held in your name. As I don't have a sense of beauty I give you this crown, and you may do with it and hand it to whom you want." 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Arya was still having a hard time to understand that Sansa was siding with her all of a sudden... when she was shocked again.

Her father – who had sat frozen with the flowery crown in his lap – stood up, bowed to his monarch and said: "Your Grace, you will forgive me that a father will always think his daughters to be the most beautiful beings around him."

Robert laughed and agreed, and then... her father placed the crown on her head. Confused, Arya looked at her father, then at surprised Sansa, who was beautiful and should have got the crown instead...

 

There was some clapping and some laughter to be heard from the crowd. Arya stiffened. Those people were mocking her for being Arya Horseface! Gods, no! Arya's cheeks started to burn and next did the corners of her eyes.

Damn, her father was sooo stupid! He didn't understand a thing! Angrily, she grabbed the crown and hurled it to the floor, jumped up and ran away. Her father was calling something after her, but she didn't listen and didn't want to understand his words. Tears were starting to stream down her cheeks, and that made her even more irritable.

 

Swiftly, Arya hid in a secret place and cried her eyes out. It took her a while to recover. Then, she started to lurk about the camp with the many tents. The following day, people would be starting to remove all those signs of the tournament, but for now, everything was still intact.

 

When she turned a corner, Arya spotted a scene that caused her another shock. Her still puffy eyes bulged. Sansa was standing in the Hound's tent again – the entrance was open, so she could see it clearly – and her sister was smiling at the monster of a man and even... nononono, she wasn't, was she...!? She was pressing his hand! In a warm, ladylike way.

And the Hound? Under different circumstances Arya would have literally paid to see his owlish face. Now, however, she rather wanted to puke into the next corner.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting more serious towards the end of this chapter.

"You were fantastic against Ser Jaime! And then the way you saved Ser Loras! You're maybe not a knight, but you're even better! You're a hero for saving his life."

Sansa nodded to emphasize her words. She was sure nobody ever told Prince Joffrey's shield about his good sides, what with the vicious Lannister mentality prevailing at court; so she was resolved to show the man her support. After all, he wasn't responsible of the prince having turned into a negative person.

She had seen Joffrey inspect Ser Gregor's dead stallion with interest and had shuddered. At the same time, she had also noticed how differently Sandor Clegane had treated his own animal: demanding, yes, but with respect. That was good.

 

Now, however, the burned man's slate eyes were glowing with contempt.

"Bah! Hero! I'm no hero. The spectators can all go bugger themselves with a hot poker. And so can Ser Loras – though I guess getting buggered would be a treat for him, if it was done by... ah whatever. Anyway – you want to know why I did it? The normal jousting was for the money."

He let his fat purse jingle in his hand.

"And that last fight? I don't give a damn about that Rose from Highgarden; I wanted to kill my brother."

 

Sansa didn't quite understand the comment about "buggering" and "Loras", but she knew the former was a bad word and blushed. At the same time, she felt revulsion at the idea of kinslaying, but also compassion for the big man in front of her.

She said: "I wish you had had a loving family like I do."

Sandor Clegane looked to the side.

"So do I, little bird," he murmured.

Next, he tensed, squared his shoulders and rasped: "But it's horseshit to cry over spilled milk. And you better learn the difficult lessons sooner in life than later. The way it is, I'm not a pretty, foppish knight now, but a killer. A survivor. That knight, Loras, out there wouldn't survive his first battle and shit his pants in the dying process."

 

Sansa wanted to wrinkle her nose at the vulgar language - but then, she thought that perhaps the Hound was saying these things in such a rude style to make himself appear stronger somehow. Her heart started to flutter, though she had no clue why... and somehow, there was a weird, but overwhelming impulse deep in her core...

 

"Yes, you're such a strong man – anyone else would already have succumbed and broken to your fate. Of course, you're a hero. My hero."

And then, she threw her arms around his middle and pressed herself against the huge warrior. 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

SEVEN HELLS, WHAT...!?

Sandor looked down at the masses of red curls that covered Sansa's head. Felt her warmth against him, even more so since he had already put off his breastplate. He was still wearing his shin guards and his hauberk, but that was no protection against the little bird, he realised.

Unknown feelings whooshed through his body. His long dead sister had embraced him when he had been a child, but since she had died no-one had ever...

 

He noticed a movement behind Sansa, looked out of the tent – and froze. Oh holy bleeding fuck, that was Sansa's little hellion of a sister, and she had seen them!

At once, he grimaced and gestured to her as if to say: "This is not my doing – I've got no clue what's got into her!"

Arya was staring at them in total shock and disgust. Next, she turned around and ran away. Blasted shit, his head would end on a spear! That wolf-bitch hated him and would run straight to Lord Stark!

 

Sansa was just in the process of looking up and asking: "What is it Ser San..."

"I'M NO SER!"

 

And with those words, he sprinted off, trying to catch the tomboyish girl. The problem was: though he had the longer legs Arya was like quicksilver and dashed away from him at top speed. That the crowd was still packed around the tents of the bigwigs played into her hands, for she could disappear in the masses where he got stuck.

He swore and ranted and pushed like a rabid cur, causing frightened looks, but it was hopeless.

 

With balled fists and rigid as if he had swallowed a stick, he returned to his tent. To his surprise, Sansa was still there.

"What happened? Why did you run away? I hope... you don't think me wanton now, do you? I'm sorry if I have annoyed you..."

 

Sandor rolled his eyes.

"You know shit, little bird. Your sister saw us, and now, she'll take revenge of me and make sure your father will kill me. For "assaulting" his daughter. And he won't listen to what I could say, mark my words. He's too honourable and quick with his judgement. I'm a doomed man."

 

Lady Sansa's hands flew to her mouth, and she gasped: "No!"

Sandor could only snort at that.

 

"Ser Sandor..."

"I'm. No. Ser. Stupid, pretty bird!"

"I'm sorry, but I promise I'll talk to her. I'll talk to father. Really, I'll make sure they'll believe you're innocent."

And with those words, Lady Sansa dashed out of the tent. Sandor was left behind to shake his head and to wait for what he considered to be the inevitable. 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Arya's heart was beating like a drum, and she didn't know what to think or to do. Well, the stupid Hound had fallen behind, which was a relief. Yet, the scene she had just witnessed felt as if it had been seared into her memory.

 

Sansa had... SHE had. Not him. By the old gods, how was it possible that Sansa, who only loved beauty and gentleness and elegance, was suddenly smitten with the big, bad Hound?  
Arya shook herself like a wet wolf.

Her sister had been behaving in a suspicious way all day long, granted, but then again, Arya had never understood her ways in the first place. Now, however, the younger Stark girl felt as if she had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. If Sansa's crush on Joffrey had already been absurd – what on earth was this!?

Besides, what had happened in the meantime and had triggered off such a turnaround? The evening before the Hound had walked her sister back from the tourney to her room. Had they kissed on the way?

 

"Bleh! Arya Stark, stop thinking such stupid things! That's the essence of disgusting!" she berated herself inwardly.

 

Since she had no answers to her questions Arya started to ponder how she should react to this mess. Should she talk to her father? Before Sansa's apology during the tourney she would have done so without hesitation, but now, Arya stopped in her tracks and chewed on her lip.

She thought: "Perhaps I should talk to Sansa f..."

"Here you are, Lady Arya!"

 

It was Septa Mordane. She grabbed Arya's arm tightly, and the look of the woman indicated an imminent thunderstorm.

"The Seven know I'm trying to turn you into a proper lady, but this is too much! The shame! The insolence of it! Do you know how much you humiliated your father out there in the king's box when you rejected the crown of flowers? Your father looked like a fool in everyone's eyes."

 

Arya's eyes widened. She hadn't thought of the consequences of her reaction.

"Oh! But I didn't..."

"You'll stay in your chamber now and pray to the Seven on your knees – and your lord father has already given orders that your dancing lessons are cancelled."

 

"No!" Arya squealed.

Tears were pooling in her eyes, and she tried to break free from her septa's grip, but she wasn't successful. After another moment, it was as if something broke deep inside of her, and without any further resistance she allowed to be dragged into her room.

 

Wham!

The door closed shut behind her, and this was followed by the screech of a key turned in its lock. Arya threw herself onto her bed and sobbed until her eyes felt as sore as her heart and she was too exhausted to go on crying.


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa dashed into the Tower of the Hand with billowing skirts. Where was Arya!? Gods, hopefully, she had not spoken with their father already.

 

On her way, she met Septa Mordane.

"Septa! Have you seen my sister?"

The woman grimaced, and her lips tautened.

"She's locked up in her room for her misbehaviour. You mustn't see her now, Lady Sansa. She's expected to think about her mistake."

 

Sansa didn't quite understand, she could only gather that this had nothing to do with herself.

"So she hasn't been able to spill anything yet..." she thought.

Which was good, but the danger wasn't over before Sansa hadn't been able to talk to her little sister. The big problem was now - how could she contact her?

 

It took her a moment, but then, she had an idea: she'd write Arya a letter and push it under the door into her sister's room.

Sansa nodded to herself, went into her own chamber and set to work. She tried to explain that her encounter with Sandor Clegane had been harmless. What Sansa didn't write was the man's sad back story, because she had promised him not to give it away. Just to remember what the scarred prince's shield had told her caused her heart to constrict. Oh, she simply needed to help the poor man and to save him from punishment for a situation she was responsible for!

 

Well, it was easier said than done. Usually, she was good at writing, but in this case, words didn't come to her easily. It took her quite a while and four attempts until she had finished a version she found acceptable.

 

She went to Arya's room and slipped the paper under the door. No reaction. Sansa waited for a few moments, but then, she had to retire, since she didn't want to be discovered lurking in front of her sister's chambers in a suspicious way.

 

When she retreated she could only hope Arya would understand her. Sansa's shoulders were tense for hours afterwards. 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sandor had been expecting armed forces to arrest him for "assaulting" Sansa Stark all evening and all night long – only at the dawn of the next morning did he dare to hope he might keep his head. Or his balls. Or even both.

 

Nevertheless, he felt strained during his shift. The fact that Joffrey was in one of his moods didn't make things any better.

Sandor would have rather preferred to single out the little bird and to have a quiet word with her. Somehow, he couldn't believe that Sansa had been successful with her promise, and that he'd be let off the hook so easily. Life didn't work that way, he had learned. As it turned out he was right.

 

At nightfall, when his shift had ended, he strolled through the Red Keep to go and see if he couldn't spot Sansa Stark somewhere, but when he didn't find her he decided to have a look across the city from atop the battlements. The view helped to calm him down from time to time.

 

When Sandor was mounting the serpentine steps that led upwards, a figure emerged from the shadows. It pulled at his coat. Next, it signalled him to leave the radius of light from the torches as well. A voice whispered at him. He recognised it at once and gaped at the frame.

 

"Ser Sandor."

"Fuck, I'm no ser. Will you ever learn that?"

A warm, elegant hand landed on his calloused one, which had been in the process of instinctively drawing a dagger for self-defence. Sandor winced.

Quickly, he growled: "Well. I'm still in one piece, so I guess nobody has learned of our last meeting. What has been going on? That bratty sister of yours – has she kept her mouth shut?"

 

Sansa Stark wrinkled her brow at his rude language. Yes, yes, the blasted lady – no surprise there.

With a trace of mild chiding in her voice she answered: "My 'bratty' sister should be paid more respect. She could still use her knowledge against us."

 

Sandor chuckled, and his voice was rife with sarcasm when he answered: "US? There's an US? Now, that's a good one. Your sister would bring about MY downfall, not yours. You're from too important a family; you'd always get out of a compromising situation alive. I would not."

 

Sansa looked to the side and bit her lip. A shiver ran through Sandor's body, but he ignored it.

After a moment, the little bird spoke up: "Arya was locked up in her room for quite a while because of her unruly behaviour during the tournament. But finally, I've managed to talk to her. She has made her point very clear: she'll keep her mouth shut under one condition."

"Aaa, how I 'love' blackmailing," Sandor said and snorted. "So what does the little wolf girl want from me?"

 

Sansa Stark looked up at him, and he pretended to inspect his fingernails.

"Arya has been punished, you know. She has confided in me and told me that she has had some fighting lessons recently. Father has cancelled those. By the looks of it, her former teacher - Syrio Forel, I don't know, if you've met him - has also left the Red Keep. You may guess now what my sister wants from you."

 

Sandor stiffened.

"No. No! This is ridiculous! I'm not a bloody trainer. Understood? In that case, I'll rather lose my head."

The little bird took his big paw into her hand and gazed at him with her Tully blue eyes. Simple as that. Sandor cursed. 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ned didn't know exactly where to put his finger, but his daughters were behaving in a weird way of late. It had all started during the tournament. Ever since, his two girls were behaving somehow in a... subversive way.

Septa Mordane had told him they'd suddenly disappear together and turn up again two hours later with cobwebs in their hair and dirt on the hems of their clothes. Of late, Sansa was even having scratches, bruises and cuts.

 

Lord Stark shook his head. While this sort of behaviour had always been typical of Arya it was an absolute mystery when it came to Sansa. Ned had seen the girls exchange meaningful looks and felt that something was afoot he had no knowledge of.

 

What he could see, however, was that Sansa's interest in Prince Joffrey was reduced to level zero. She didn't try to pass time with him any more, or even to talk to him. The lack of enthusiasm – especially in contrast to her former feelings – were obvious for everyone. Cersei had already complained in public to Robert that Sansa wasn't showing her son the respect he deserved.

 

This had been the point when Eddard had known he had to find out what was going on. And now, Sansa was standing in front of him, looking innocent at first sight, but her body tension gave her away.

 

"Little lemon cake," he started and waved her over. "Take a seat and have some grape juice. How are you faring? How do you like King's Landing? And I've noticed you're getting along with Arya much better these days, which pleases me a lot."

 

Sansa relaxed a little and smiled, but was still on guard.

"Father, Arya and me, we've talked a lot over the last days, and yes, it's good that we've become closer than we were back on the Kingsroad."

"You're also passing more time with her now, aren't you?"

Sansa's fingers played with a handkerchief.

"Yes, that's true. Thanks to her I've come to realise that I still don't know enough about the place I'm living in now, so she's showing me around."

 

Ned drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair. Aha. Well, that explained a few things. But not all.

"You're not taking any risks, are you?"

Sansa shook her head vividly at that.

"Oh no, quite the contrary! Arya has shown me a secret passage in case we have to hide somewhere in a case of emergency." 

 

Lord Stark's eyes widened. Sansa and an underground escape route? What on earth...?

"Lemon cake, you shouldn't do this. You could get lost under the Red Keep easily. Besides, no true lady should go there. It's improper, and me or Jory or his men will always keep you safe. Oh, and before I forget it – Cersei is complaining about you. She says you're ignoring – and thus humiliating – Prince Joffrey."

 

Sansa cocked her head. When she answered her voice was gentle as always... but her words were of a downright shocking quality.

"Father, Arya and me we're together and not taking any risks, I swear. And as long as Cersei as the queen can get drunk and can pick fights with the king in public I don't see how I could be improper when I'm just trying to take care of my own safety. And you're saying someone would always be there for my protection. Watching Arya has caused me to believe it would be wiser, if I could protect myself to a minimal extent. It's true I could never be as strong as a warrior, but at least I want to be able to run, or to win some time, should the need arise."

 

Lord Stark gaped at his daughter. Never before had she uttered such words! The problem was now that Sansa was right about Cersei's behaviour, and that he himself had not put an end to Arya's tomboyish ways, so he felt he had outmanoeuvred himself. That again caused him to bristle.

"Sansa, your MOTHER should be your model of a good lady. And Arya should behave more properly, rather than to guide you down the wrong road. Apart from that – how come you're suddenly fearing for your safety when I would do anything to keep you safe?"

 

His daughter looked at him with her blue eyes and answered in a sad voice: "Father, this is the Red Keep. Not Winterfell. Since they took Lady I've come to understand that fate may strike at any time. And the strike may come from someone... in my surroundings. Not from an open enemy."

 

Ned understood then that he had taken more than Lady's life. He had destroyed her daughter's absolute trust in him. Oh, by the old gods, what had he done!?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentioning of marital rape

Sansa remained nervous. For the time being, her father didn't press her about any more private details, but she knew that this could happen again all too soon. So they had to remain as... inconspicuous as possible. Nobody was to find out the truth!

 

The last days had been so exciting! Sansa had never had a taste for adventures, but it was as if things had been turned on their head.

They had been meeting in an old, forgotten underground storeroom under the Red Keep. Arya still hated Sandor for what had happened on the Kingsroad, but her desire to learn fighting was more intense, thank the Warrior.

 

Sansa had accompanied her sister into the entrails of the castle; at first, she had simply wanted to be sure that the experiment didn't end in a catastrophe. Which was a good thing, because Clegane and Arya kept growling at each other.

Yet, nothing really bad had happened so far – if you ignored that a high-born girl was swinging her own little sword. Sansa didn't want to know where the metal toothpick had come from.

 

After the first two meetings, however, she hadn't wanted to stand around and watch any more. That had become boring, if she was honest with herself, although it was a pleasure to watch the Hound's fluid movements. So she had squared her shoulders and had asked Sandor to teach her some techniques for self-defence.

Sandor and Arya had both looked at her as if she had fallen on her head and had turned mental. Then, Sandor had thrown back his head and had bellowed his laughter.

 

Sansa had put her hands on her hips, had pouted and asked: "What is so funny about this?"

Clegane, the insolent ruffian, had actually wiped away a tear of mirth.

"Haha, you're sure you want to do this?"

"Of course! And now!"

Sansa had stomped her foot and had thought she had never been so angry in her life.

"Hound don't..." Arya had started, but too late.

Sandor had stepped behind Sansa. Rrrrtsh! And the back lacing of her corset had been history.

 

Sansa had squealed and called: "How dare you!?"

Arya had come to her aid and had attacked the Hound, but she had been disarmed within seconds.

Next, the Warrior had turned to herself again and had rasped: "How do you want to fight or at least to run away from an enemy, if you're wearing something that restricts your breathing? You should be able to pant like the wolf you're supposed to be, not gasp for air like an overbred lapdog. Think about it. Then, you can come and ask for training again, not before. And now I'm off. Around the ninth hour tomorrow, if you're still interested."

And with those words he had stalked off on his long legs.

 

For an hour, Sansa had been too embarrassed and too angry to think straight. Bit by bit, however, the truth of his words had sunk into her, and she had pleaded with her sister not to geld Clegane on the next occasion. He had been rough, yes, but he had been so for her own good, to make his point clear.

Besides, he had seen a small part of her exposed back for a few seconds, and for some reason, the memory of it caused a tickling sensation in her core which, in its turn, made her heart beat faster.

 

"You're just upset by his gruffness, that's all," she had admonished herself while replacing the torn laces of her corset and burning them before any room maid had been able to discover anything untoward.

 

And now, she was getting lessons like Arya... or rather not like her because of the lack of an own sword. Sandor Clegane showed herself how to hide and to draw a knife, how to train her instincts so she'd be able to run. He'd often sneak up at her from behind, and she was asked to tell him when she noticed his presence.  
Well... Sansa was becoming very aware of him very soon. Still, she remained silent until he was directly behind her, cursed her for her insensitivity so she could feel his hot breath on the nape of her neck – and her cheeks were burning... 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sandor was known to be a grumpy man even at the best of times, but these days he felt and behaved as if he were a demon from the seven hells, and his fellow men-at-arms shunned him even more than they usually did. Which suited him perfectly.

 

He felt as if he were a bundle of nerves. The point that he could be detected – or betrayed – at any moment with regard to his... interactions with the Stark sisters... The fact that Sansa fucking Stark was so clueless she couldn't even defend herself from a cockroach...

Than the thing that she was TOUCHING him all the time. Yes, yes, it was all harmless at first sight, but in fact, it resembled torture. She kept stumbling and clinging to him at every twist and turn so as not to fall over the hem of her skirts. She never held her knife correctly, until he literally had to grab her hands to make his point clear.

 

And worst of all: she was FUSSING over him as if he were a blasted sissy! Once, Arya managed to scratch him a little in a training fight - and the little bird berated her sister at once as if the she-wolf had cut open his chest. To carry it all to extremes, Sansa had wanted to put a godamn bandage on him!

She had even chirped like a bird in panic: "Oh, I'm so sorry! What an ordeal is she putting you through again?"

The fact that Arya, who hated him, had been oscillating between malicious glee, disgust and PITY had been downright humiliating.

 

This had to stop now! Sandor hit his left palm with his right fist. Off he stalked to their next meeting in the dungeons.

And didn't get two words into the intended conversation.

 

"Ser Sandor!"

"I'm no..."

"Look what I've got for you!"

The Hound froze. Another gift for him!? Wasn't he still suffering from the consequences of the last one? And had a maester given the bird an overdose of some potion? She was so jubilant and excited... something that was normally downright impossible when his close presence was included.

 

"What is it, girl?" he growled.

"See! You gave me your handkerchief when I cut myself, remember? And I've got a new, clean one for you - and I've stitched your sigil onto it."

Sandor saw the piece of cloth, saw the perfect embroidery of three black dogs in a yellow field, and deep down he felt...

"Didn't ask for a bloody gift. Can't use this pretty one. It would only attract unwanted attention."

 

Sandor saw Sansa's face react and wanted to throttle himself. Arya was glaring daggers at him, and she had the right of it. No, she hadn't! After all, his words were true. A ruffian like him didn't posses such a beautiful handkerchief. Sandor's mouth twitched in anger.

 

So this was it. He had fucked it all up so completely the little bird would never chirp at him again.

Sandor was just about to turn away and to leave in silence...

... when Sansa's warm, lithe body made impact with his, her arms went around his middle and she sobbed: "Oh, I'm so sorry for always being so stupid. For never doing things right. You deserve better."

 

The Hound had no clue how to react. Lady Sansa was pressing herself against him in such a way that he'd hurt her if he tried to shove her away.

Wide-eyed, he gazed over at a nauseous-looking Arya and asked: "Just for the record... I'm the bugger here, am I not?" 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Gods, how he hated his wife and her golden family! Robert was swearing in frustration and rolled up the parchment he had been handed by a servant from the rookery two hours prior.

Cersei was standing in front of him now, hands on her hips, and as triumphant as angry.

 

"That's blackmailing, woman, nothing less. I am the king – and should a king take orders from a lesser man?"

Cersei narrowed her eyes and spat: "My father is no 'lesser man', and you know it damned well. If not for him and his financial support you and the kingdom would already be bankrupt."

 

Robert thrashed his fist onto the table next him, knocking over his goblet of wine in the process.

"So that's what you call it? 'Financial support'? Your father has me got by my balls and can dictate me his wishes – which is everything you wanted. And now this! I can't do that."

 

Cersei showed him a saccharine smile, and Robert wanted to vomit and to hit her at the same time.

"The Stark girl will not marry Joffrey. He deserves better," his wife emphasized.

Robert snapped back at her: "The Stark family is the most noble one in Westeros and has got a lineage of 8000 years. Your Lannister clan cannot compete with that, and Joffrey should be grateful for the match you're sabotaging."

"Grateful!? Have you seen that girl of late? She's so arrogant she's ignoring and humiliating Joffrey. As if he were thin air – not her future king. No, Joff can be relieved if he can get rid of this daft, air-headed wolf-bitch. And I'm telling you: you'll carry out my father's order and end the betrothal between the two of them. You'll go to Eddard Stark right now."

 

Robert looked at his wife with venom in his eyes.

A thought crossed his mind, and he rumbled: "There is something, however, your father cannot prevent or forbid. I'm still your husband, and from now on, I'll fuck you every night until you can't walk any more. I know how much you despise my cock. This will be my punishment – until you're with child again. You're not too old yet. Oh, and one more thing. I actually have already talked to Ned. As we're speaking, he is just announcing a decree of mine in court. Joffrey will not be my heir, but Tommen. If Joff can't even attract a sweet girl like Sansa, he won't be able to attract his subjects either, and he's unfit to be king. At this very moment, our son is already taken away and under the wings of the High Septon so he'll follow in the holy man's tracks in the future. Until then, our elder son will get some religious training in a faraway place where he's removed from your fatal influence. See? This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't taken everything to this level."

 

Cersei paled, her eyes bulged, and Robert felt some satisfaction, though it was a cold kind of comfort. He had been so proud of his son when he had been born, and long afterwards, but if Robert was honest, he had lost him already years ago to his evil bitch of a wife. Sending Joffrey away – to a secret religious location – only revealed in public what Cersei had already cemented before.

 

The only thing still that had to be settled was to decide what should become of Joff's sworn shield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I do not condone Robert's treatment of his wife and I did have some problems to write this part. While Cersei does despicable things in canon sexual punishment is never acceptable. Why did I integrate it here then? We know from canon that Robert and Cersei have had some dub-con/non-con activities in their wedded past and I can imagine Robert to think this treatment to be just. After all, we're in misogynistic Westeros where marital rape is considered to be acceptable.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is leaning heavily on book canon and contains a few details show only fans won't know.

Sansa was still very upset. Not because she wouldn't marry Joffrey Baratheon, no, but because she didn't know what would happen now. The former crown prince had disappeared at the king's behest, and she hadn't seen Sandor Clegane for two days now. His squire had disappeared as well.

It was as if her core was frozen, and she started to walk to and fro, to and fro, until her father commented: "I am confused. When he was still here you didn't seem to care about Joffrey anymore – and yet, you look heartbroken now."

 

Sansa stopped in her tracks and gazed at her father.

"I'm just nervous about what will happen next. You don't have a conflict with the king about this, have you?"

Her father rubbed her nose with his index finger.

"No, little lemoncake. I'm actually relieved it ended like this. Besides, I keep thinking that Tommen might become a better monarch. For now, we'll have to let some grass grow over the past betrothal. Perhaps you should return to Winterfell. In a year or two, we'll find you another fiancé."

 

Sansa's heartbeat accelerated, and she stiffened.

"There's no need to speed up the decision, is there, father? I'd just like to... gather my wits after what has happened. And I'm so happy to be getting along with Arya much better."  
Her words were pathetic, Sansa thought, but she needed to buy time.

 

Lord Stark looked into the fire and bethought himself.

"I think I can understand you."

He nodded and looked gloomy.

"All I want is to see you happy, daughter."

 

Sansa put her hand on her father's shoulder.

"I know you want the best for me, and I'm grateful for it."

The problem was that slowly she was getting the impression that in the near future, her own father wouldn't always understand or accept what would make her happy. Or rather... who.  
She was still having a hard time to grasp that it would please her to please Sandor Clegane. Yet, deep down she knew that all she wanted was to help the scarred man find a measure of contentment, after all the horrors he had been exposed to.

 

Only... where was he? Was he all right? Would he be back soon? 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

His life had become even bleaker, even more of a hell than it had already been. Sandor downed his tankard of ale and burped. How long had it taken him to reach the bloody island? Why, oh why had he had to stay with the prince? Why accompany him to this monk-infested place?

 

Yes, yes, he knew it all too well: he, the Hound was loyal, taciturn, secretive – and Joffrey's shield besides. By now, weeks had turned into months, a year and a half even; the brighter memories from King's Landing – the ones considering the little bird – were bittersweet... and unfortunately refused to fade from his mind. Forgetting them would have been merciful in his case, but no, of course life had to show him the middle finger again and did everything to make him suffer. Like usual.

 

“Fuck the king,” Sandor growled lowly into his empty tankard.

Next, he flicked his looks up and down the table. The monks didn't tolerate his cursing.

 

“What did you say, Hound?” Joffrey griped beside him.

“Acolyte, how often do I have to remind you that you're forbidden to speak? And how often need I tell you that this man mustn't be addressed with an animal's name in a tone that is supposed to humiliate him?” the Elder Brother spoke up.

The prince pressed his eyes shut and Sandor could see him ball his fists below the table.

However, the leading monk wasn't done yet.

“Acolyte, you're showing no willingness to learn and to cherish the wisdom of the Faith. Even your companion, irreligious and rough as he is, and his squire show more respect for life than you do. You'll pass another day at the graveyard to dig graves for those who have perished recently.”

 

Joffrey pouted like the spoiled brat he was and Sandor knew he himself would be the one who'd be digging the graves in the prince's stead again. Whenever the monks turned their backs Joffrey bossed Sandor around like he had done back in the capital.

Still, the Hound didn't mind. Burying the dead was a more acceptable task than – say – having to pray all day. And somehow he couldn't shake off the feeling that the Elder Brother knew about it and kept punishing the prince in such a way on purpose.

At least Grayle had been assigned a task the lad liked: helping in the brewery. That way, Joffrey couldn't pester his squire as well.

 

“Clegane, please follow me,” the Elder Brother addressed him.

Surprised, Sandor rose from the dinner table and followed the monk to his hut.

Once they had arrived, the man spoke up: “I've received a raven from the capital. Queen Cersei has passed away after a miscarriage.”

Sandor arched his eyebrows, but remained silent. Well, those were some news indeed.

 

The Elder Brother held up a scroll.

“King Robert says you needn't stay here any more to help keep the prince hidden from his mother. And there's another thing. King Robert tells me your presence is required on your fief from now on, so you should go there.”

 

Sandor shook himself like a wet dog.

“I don't have a fief. There must be a mistake in the letter.”

The Elder Brother answered: “No, no, it's the truth. You've been invested with a fief and the title of a lord.”

Sandor goggled at the monk, twitching jaw sagging.

“You're bloody kidding, aren't you?”

“I've never been more serious in my life, LORD Clegane. Your brother has died as well, and you're the heir.”

 

Sandor's eyes widened. What the Elder Brother had said were only words – and yet, they felt as if a morning star had hit him. A red veil descended in front of his eyes and he roared at the top of his lungs: “GREGOR!”

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Lord Edmure Tully welcomed the Trek – especially the riders and the carriage at the forefront. He felt deeply honoured that Lord Stark, the king's Hand, had taken it upon himself to travel to Riverrun with his daughters to attend his wedding with Lady Roslin Frey. The men from the Twins had already arrived, and there was the merry chatter of many voices in the yard. Edmure's sister, Lady Catelyn, was expected from Winterfell over the next days as well.

Edmure was looking forward to the reunion of the spouses, and by now, he was also much more hopeful with regard to his own wedding. Some months prior, King Robert had ordered him to choose a bride to ensure an heir was born to ascertain the future lineage of the Tullys. At first, Edmure had been loath to oblige, but now that he had met Lady Roslin for the first time prospects had improved a lot in his eyes, for the young woman was fair to look upon and appeared to be gentle of heart as well.

Thus, it was no wonder he was smiling when he was greeting his new guests.

 

“Lord Stark! How wonderful to see you! And in good health, too,” Edmure said.

The Hand of the king showed him a rusty smile – his goodbrother was clearly not wont to merriment, Edmure noticed. Then, his eyes fell upon Lord Eddard's daughters and he got an inkling of why the Warden of the North and Hand of the king would have a sinister nature these days.

Ned's younger daughter, Lady Arya, looked lively enough, though rather tousled, and she was wearing men's clothes. The other one, however, who resembled Catelyn a lot, looked frail. Her pallid complexion didn't speak of good health, her auburn hair was dull and had been clipped short like her sister's, she had gaunt features, and her eyes were overcast with melancholia.

 

Later, when Edmure and his goodbrother were having a private talk, Lord Eddard revealed some more about his daughters' situation: “I can do what I want – it's all to no avail. Arya is so wild that a betrothal is next to impossible. I tried to make her a match with Quentin Martell, but she was against it, so I invited the young man to change her mind. It all ended with Arya throwing Quentin's boot at him – which she had filled with horse dung before.”

 

“And what about Sansa?” Edmure asked, trying to stifle a fit of laughter.

Lord Eddard's shoulders sagged.

“With her it's far worse. Her heart broke when King Robert ended the betrothal with Prince Joffrey and sent the lad away. Ever since, she has not looked at another man with even a smile. We have to force her to eat and she's apathetic most of the time. The only exception being my attempts to make another match for her. She once told me she'd do worse things than throw a boot with dung. I've tried to plead with King Robert to renew the betrothal, but he's too stubborn to allow his elder son to return to court, now that Prince Tommen has been proclaimed the heir to the throne, and I can't even hold it against him.”

 

Edmure weighed his head.

“I see. You're not in an easy position, goodbrother. Let's hope the change of location will do the girls some good, and I'm convinced meeting their mother will have a positive influence on them. Perhaps my own wedding will inspire them – who knows?”

“Your words in the gods' ears,” Lord Stark murmured, and lacking a better idea Edmure clapped him on the shoulder.


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa had curled up in her bed and pretended to sleep. She didn't want to be a part of the merriment down in the hall, didn't want to take part in the welcome banquet. While she was willing to like her uncle and her great-uncle, she was in no mood for celebrations.

Unfortunately, Arya, who she was sharing her room with, was of a different opinion and determined to drag Sansa downstairs as well.

 

“Sister, this is your uncle's upcoming wedding, and he's honouring us with the welcome feast. It's your duty as a lady to attend.”

Sansa wrinkled her nose.

“If you weren't interested you wouldn't care one whit about duty.”

Arya remained unperturbed.

“Sure, but I'm no lady to begin with.”

 

Sansa pressed her face into the pillow, but Arya was relentless, pulled her into a sitting position and called for a maid.

“At least one of us must be presentable, and my case is a hopeless one.”

Sansa sighed and told her maid: “Just the simple blue dress with the grey hem. And leave the hair open. Just give me the direwolf hairclasp. And the lapislazuli necklace. I'm in no mood for a complicated style.”  
The maid curtsied and hurried to oblige.

Sansa felt her sister's dark gaze on her, but neither of them spoke. That was unnecessary.

 

Down in the hall, the feast was just about to start, and Sansa sat down at her father's side. He patted her hand and looked relieved about her presence. Well. She herself was not relieved at all and only wanted to return to her chamber.

 

On the other side of her father, Edmure was acting the gallant host and talking about this and that. Sansa only listened superficially – until she heard some words that caused her to prick up her ears.

“... and I'll never understand why the king didn't only give the Clegane Hound his deceased brother's title, but even more lands for his fief. Sure, he must have been rotting away on that Quiet Isle with all the monks and the prince, and he's been sent onto this tricky, secret mission by the king's direct order, but still...”

 

Sansa blinked.

“How do you know about these things, uncle Edmure?”

The Lord of Riverrun snorted and said: “Heard it from the ugly, scarred man's mouth myself.”

Sansa's heart started to beat faster, and some sort of reaction must have shown on her face, for her father patted her hand and said: “Yes, it's official now: Prince Joffrey is on the Quiet Isle. But I cannot give you any hope, for he has been destined to become a man of the Faith.”

Sansa didn't even look at her father, and asked her uncle instead: “When did you meet the prince's sworn shield?”

Lord Edmure waved his hand dismissively.

“Oh, about an hour ago, more or less. Having been released from his duty he arrived here on the way to his fief shortly after you and thought to pay his respects because of the upcoming wedding. Couldn't well turn him away, could I? If he's not already sitting at the lower tables he should arrive in a few moments. – Naah, can't see his coarse frame yet.”

“He's here!?”

 

Under the table, Arya kicked her shin, and Sansa winced.

Her father flinched as well, rolled his eyes and rumbled: “And now you want to talk to that brute to find out about Joffrey's current situation, is that the way of it, daughter?”

Sansa lowered her eyes.

“If... if I may talk to Lord Clegane, it would gladden my heart,” she chimed meekly and hoped nobody would notice the trepidation from the hot shiver that was creeping up her spine.

Her father sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Before he could answer, however, Lord Edmure pointed with his knife and commented jovially: “Speaking of the fire demon – there he is.”

 

Sansa's look darted towards the portal doors and saw a familiar, tall figure enter.

A bolt of lightning exploded in her core.

Her mind went empty, apart from one single word: Sandor.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He noticed her at once and he suddenly felt like a maid with too tight a corset. He had already been honest with himself about the fact that he had stopped at Riverrun – even come to the fortress – for the sole reason that he had hoped to meet the Stark girl.

Now that he was facing her again after more than two years he was shocked. By the fact that she had become a real woman, but also because he could see that she was frail and didn't look healthy. At once, he asked himself who was responsible for that state of hers, and he vowed to himself he'd tear that person a second arsehole.

 

For the time being, however, it was the time of the banquet and he wasn't supposed to sit on the dais. Thus, he simply inclined his head as a greeting and took a seat at the middle tables. Now that he was a lord, he wasn't supposed to sit near the door anymore, but neither had he become a very important man nor had his reputation improved, so sitting further up the tables was out of the question as well.

 

He wasn't hungry; neither did he drink much alcohol, because he thought it better to keep his wits about him. Sandor discovered Sansa was barely eating, just like himself.

Further down at the lower tables, however, Grayle was wolfing down one portion after the other. Well, the lad was still growing and Lord Tully was supposed to feed his guests. After the simple food on the Quiet Isle the dishes here at Riverrun were surely one of the seven heavens for the squire. And the second heaven would be the presence of some serving wenches. Sandor smiled to himself, because he could imagine the effect of the buxom girls on teenage Grayle after two years of an absolute lack of females.

 

Then, Sandor looked back at the dais and listened to the other men. It became clear Sansa and Arya were still unmarried, and the weasel-faced Freys around him made some lewd comments about the girls.

In between two sips of thin beer Sandor growled at them: “They're the cousins of Lord Tully. You'll pay them all due respect – or you'll pay your respect to my mailed fists.”

His words shut up the buggers effectively.

 

After the various courses, the tables were pushed to the side to make room for music and dancing. Sandor retreated into a corner and tried to disappear in the shadows.

Mere moments later, he learned his tactics were useless. A lean, wiry figure approached his own bulky one.

“Hound, damn you, still the scarred beauty I remember.”

Sandor snorted.

“And you're still a rugged little she-wolf with more teeth than brains.”

“Same to you, Hound,” Arya retorted and went on: “My sister wants to speak to you.”

 

For some reason Sandor didn't want to understand his heart dropped into his boots.

He arched an eyebrow and asked in an offhand voice: “Oh, the Lady Sansa? Does she? Why would she want to talk to a mangy cur like me after two years?”

Arya shot him an impish smirk: “You better go to her and ask her yourself – before she comes over and asks you for a dance.”

The squishy heart in his boots oozed further down, right between his toes.

“An empty threat if I ever heard one. She's a bloody lady. A lady wouldn't behave like that.”

Arya scratched her nose.

“Hmmm... maybe. But I am no lady, in contrast to her. So... Clegane, would you dance with me?”

“Where did you say your sister is?”

The younger Stark girl started to grin once more.

“Thanks for not exposing me to your huge hind paws. Next size: dwarf coffin. Wouldn't want to have them on my own feet. Anyway, Sansa's over there.”

 

Without further ado, Sandor stomped into the indicated direction.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Grayle was just bantering with a very nice wench, whom he intended to wangle off a kiss or two later on, when he noticed his master head in the direction of Lady Sansa. Oho, this was promising to be an interesting encounter. He had started to get allergic to sentences like “Back in King's Landing, Lady Sansa...” or “I wonder what the Stark girl would say to...”

 

Since Grayle was a curious bastard, he sneaked after his master and was grinning inwardly. Clegane was literally wagging his hardening Hound's tail, he was sure.

 

Now, his master had arrived and addressed the Lady Sansa with his raspy voice. They exchanged a few words, and then, the young woman obviously motioned him to follow her outside onto a balcony or a terrace. Whohoo, this was getting even more interesting.

 

Just when he was about to move in order to follow his master he felt something cold, metallic against his groin, and a girl's voice growled: “If you want to keep your balls intact you will NOT follow him and my sister.”

Grayle swallowed hard.

“Lady... Lady Arya. I'm sorry. I meant no harm. I was just thinking of helping –”

“ – your own curiosity. Do you think me a lackwit?”

Grayle blushed crimson and felt miserable.

“I... I'm sorry, Lady Arya. I promise I'll leave them in peace.”

 

The tomboyish girl nodded at him.

“Shows at least you've got some rudimentary survival instinct. What's your name?”

“Grayle, my lady. I'm Lord Clegane's squire.”

The girl eyed him up and down with a frown on her brow and finally asked: “Tell me then – is Clegane as helplessly besotted with her as she is with him?”

 

Grayle's jaws dropped.

“What!? You mean...? She's really...?”

Lady Arya screwed up her eyes and grabbed him by the tunic.

“You come with me to the stables,” she told him in a voice that allowed no denial.

Grayle didn't have a clue of what she wanted from him, but he had the vague feeling it had nothing to do with a passionate tumble in the hay.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the last normal chapter before the epilogue.

A thousand ants were scurrying over Sansa's skin, and it had nothing to do with the cold night air in the little inner yard where they had gone.

“Well, girl, what do you want from me? Won't your lord father be here in about ten seconds to make sure the big, bad Hound isn't swallowing his precious pretty girl whole?”

The grating voice caused her to both lower her eyes and to blush.

“Not able to look me in the eyes, little bird, after more than two years?”

He put a hand under her chin and lifted it, until she was forced to look up. Even in the darkness she could see his grey eyes were stormy. Her heart bounced up and down in her ribcage.

She asked: “Is it true you were on the Quiet Isle all the time?”

The tall warrior snorted and growled: “Bloody monk-infested island. Bloody brat of a prince. Two years of ultimate shit. Don't ask me how I managed not to lose my mind, because I don't fucking know it myself.”

 

At once, Sansa's heart swelled with pity. While she couldn't understand his dislike for all religious aspects she could imagine that having to live together with monks for two years must have been a horrible punishment for him. What was more... at least in a theoretical and abstract way she knew he was a grown man with a grown man's needs, and he had been deprived of them for such a long time.

 

Sansa breathed in, smelled Sandor Clegane's scent and recognised it. Her female core started to throb and to quiver. She remembered her first signs of arousal, back in the capital – but now, they were much stronger.

“Calm down, calm down, don't behave like a loose woman,” she told herself.

 

Aloud, she said: “I am relieved to hear you're sane and sound, and I'm delighted to see you again.”

Sandor Clegane snorted.

“Chirping your polite little lies again? Har, and I am surprised you're here at this wedding without having become a bride so far yourself, little bird. What did you do to your suitors and to your lord father that has prevented a match so far?”

He leaned closer.

“Did you show them your talons, little bird? Did you prick them with a sharp little spike the way I told you to do it?”

 

His scarred face was so close now that Sansa could feel the heat radiate off his skin. She started to feel dizzy. If not for the steely gaze that bore right into her and paralysed her she would have simply fainted, she guessed.

“I...,” she stammered, “I familiarised myself with Arya's deterrence strategies, such as dung-filled boots.”

 

Sandor's eyes widened for a moment. Next, he threw back his head and bellowed his laughter.

“Hahaha, now that's rich!” he called.

“Oh... his laughter...,” was all Sansa could think, and her heart hammered against her ribcage like mad.

Words fell out of her mouth before she was able to contain them.

“Did you miss me like I missed you all these two years?”

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The question cut off Sandor's sounds of levity and had him staring at her as if he was fearing he was hallucinating. He had misunderstood the little bird, hadn't he?

With a rapid movement he brought his face right in front of hers again.

 

“And what would you have missed about a dog like me?” he growled lowly, daring her to play with him like a cat would with a mouse.

Sansa was breathing faster, and her pupils were dilated. Sandor didn't want to know what he was looking like, and it was good the girl couldn't see his heartbeat.

“What... what I missed about you? Why... everything!”

There was a desperate, urgent note to her chirping.

 

Sandor felt himself slide into a very dangerous mood where he had to put her statement to the test.

“Did you even miss that evil, scarred mouth of mine that's only good at cursing? Though I could always try to use it for doing other things to you...”

The dirty implications were lost on the little bird, and she had a different understanding of what he was saying.

 

“You... you'd kiss me?”

Sandor blinked. Then, he chuckled and showed her a malicious houndish grin.

“Why not, for a start?”

The next moment, Sansa crashed into him. Her arms went around his neck, and her warm mouth landed on him.

Sandor stiffened.

What in the seven bleeding... ooooooooh...

 

Instincts he hadn't known he possessed awoke – like wanting to stick his tongue into another mouth, something he had never felt the need to do with a whore. So he set to work like the starving dog he was.

He was taken by surprise when Sansa started to wriggle and tore away from him. Only when he saw her shocked face did it dawn on him that either his kissing technique left a lot to be desired, or he had been too wild for this delicate maid. Or both, likely.

“Not kissing like a buggering knight, am I? Well, wasn't to be expected from me, was it? I guess that now that you've had your fill of...”

Her mouth landed on his again, and Sandor couldn't believe it. And although he could barely grasp a clear thought he tried to keep a grip on himelf this time...

… and then, their tongues were dancing.

 

So spellbound by the glorious feeling was he that the sky could have crashed onto him and he wouldn't have noticed. For once, the burned corner of his mouth wasn't twitching. But he was further down. How it had come to pass that he was pressing Sansa against the wall he didn't know.

Sansa uttered a little squeal that indicated she had noticed the state he was in.

“Here we go, now she'll turn tail and run,” Sandor thought.

 

To his utter surprise, Sansa only looked up at him with her Tully-blue eyes and asked: “Is that... you?”

“The better part of me,” Sandor couldn't help saying.

Sansa turned on the colour of a cooked lobster – though she looked far more delicious. And to his endless surprise, she didn't flee.

 

“You've got no better part. I like everything about you – I mean as far as I know,” she stammered. “For example, I like the way you swing your sword. I've seen you and you're very efficient and you know how you can bring others to their knees before you sheathe your weapon again.”

Sandor squeezed his eyes shut for a heartbeat.

“Little bird?”

“Yes?”

“Your bloody naivety will be the death of me.”

Sansa knitted her brows and looked at him. The air was heavy with her silent question.

Sandor sighed.

“Have you never heard men joke about swords?”

He rubbed his hips against her to make his point clear.

Sansa uttered a tiny squeak and pressed her hand onto her mouth. Sandor chuckled in low voice into her hear.

 

“Arya, have you seen your sister?”

They froze. Fuck, that was the Lord Hand inside! Heading into their direction!

Sandor cursed himself. Seven hells, how long had they been kissing? And how had it been possible he had thrown all caution to the wind and allowed his cock to take the lead?

Sansa looked just as shocked. Quickly, they darted apart like two hot drops of water would in a hot pan.

 

“Sansa has gone to the privy, father. She's just come in from outside and passed me when I wanted to bring her her cloak, because it's cold outside. But she said she felt tired and wanted to go to bed.”

“I see. That's mindful of you, Arya. I was getting worried because of this scarred ruffian. Did she look all right?”

“As all right as she ever would these days.”

There was a dark sigh to be heard.

“Arya, will you look after your sister, or shall I go and see her later?”

“No, no, father, I can do that. Uncle Edmure and the others will want to have you around and to talk about politics and the like, and I can understand that.”

“Thank you, Arya, you're taking a weight off my chest.”

 

Sandor made a face in the darkness. The she-wolf would want to be paid for saving their arses, he was sure of that. At the same time, he felt relieved, there was no denying that.

From the direction of the stables, Sandor heard the neighing of a horse. He recognised it at once.

Stranger!? What...?

 

Arya appeared from the festive hall.

“Right. Hound, Sansa, this was damned close, if you ask me. And you're looking just as guilty as I expected to. Don't want to know what has been going on between you, but I know what has to be done now. Sansa, here's your cloak. Pull the cape over your hair.”

“Erm, thanks, but I guess I better go in...”

“No, you won't,” Arya interrupted her.

 

Sandor arched his eyebrow and was about to make for the stables – when the next words caused him to stop dead in his tracks.

“Sansa, you're in love with the Hound, as much as it makes me sick. Still, I can't bear it to see you heartbroken for another two years.”

“Arya!”

“And the Hound may be a cold-blooded killer, but he's besotted with you, too. – Clegane, there's no time for wooing in your case, but perhaps that's better, because you'd only fuck it up. You come with me.”

With those words, Arya grabbed her sister and dragged her towards the stables. Sandor stomped after them, incredulous.

“What the fuck do you mean, she-wolf?”

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Arya hated every single moment of this. She'd never understand how her sister was able to fall in love with this brutish Sandor Clegane, but the last two years of silent suffering had shown her that Sansa's feelings were by no means temporary - so measures had to be taken.

 

"Your squire is in the stables. He has prepared your black beast of a horse and his own animal for Sansa. I told him to tell the guards you've been thrown out by uncle Edmure for your lewd behaviour with a serving wench. That will explain a woman's presence at your side. And make sure you're well married before you get under my father's eyes again. You're a lord now, so he can't take your head and will just roast my arse. I hope you appreciate what I'm doing for you."

 

"The fuck!?" Sandor uttered. "What do you mean - 'well married'?"

Sansa stifled a squeal.

Arya rolled her eyes.

"Don't tell me you weren't sucking on each other's tonsils before I came out to you. We just have to shorten the process, because it'll never become reality otherwise. My father is as little a supporter of you as I am, Hound, and in addition, he's got all this male thinking and "Warden-of-the-North" and "have-to-protect-my-girl" attitude."

 

Her elder sister was shocked.

"Arya! But we cannot... this... And besides, I'm wearing a fine robe. The guards will notice."

Arya snorted. Why was she not surprised Sansa would think about her stupid looks first?

"Here, this is what I've covered with the cloak. It's one of my few dresses. The plain brown one. I'm smaller, so it'll look tight on you. Should be unconspicious for the guards then, if you lower the hood and take off your necklace. I'll keep it safe for you."

 

And with those words Arya grabbed her sister and dragged her on, to the stables.

Behind her, she heard: "She-wolf, you're mad!"

"And happy about it," she shot back over her shoulder. "Imagine I were more like Sansa. Brrr, wouldn't want to be your type of woman. And now - hush!"

 

They arrived at the stables. The two horses - and a cheese-faced Grayle - were already waiting.

Arya heard Clegane say to his squire: "I'll toast your balls for this when the story's over."

Grayle's eyes darted from his master to her.

"She - the Lady Arya - said the same..."

The Hound palmed his face and Arya was close to exploding with laughter, but she was busy dragging Sansa to a box in the - luckily deserted - stables where she all but ripped off her sister's festive gown and wrapped her up in the other dress. As predicted, the fabric was too tight, which would serve its purpose. Besides, Arya suspected Clegane wouldn't let her wear it for long once they were married, sickening as the thought was.

At least, the two lovebirds were so gobsmacked they were compliant. Arya had expected little opposition from Sansa, meek and sweet as she was, but that big, scarred brute of a warrior was such a blockhead at times... perhaps it was good he had been on that island with the monks for so long. He was likely suffering from balls as blue as the pendant of Sansa's necklace. Come to think of it...

 

Arya darted outside again and snapped at her future goodbrother: "And make sure, Clegane, that you don't hurt her in your male frenzy when you bed her - or I'll make you suffer so much that dancing with me will sound like a divine activity for you."

"Pfft - as if I'd ever want to harm Sansa."

"Good for you. And now up onto your horses. Your squire will have to sit behind Sansa for a moment. It's his horse, after all. Find him a place outside the castle where he can wait for you until you come back."

Clegane growled something unintelligible, but it sounded very much like a curse. When the three were trotting through the entrance gate of Riverrun Arya was watching from the shadows and sent a prayer to the Old Gods, hoping she had made the right decision. And that her lord father wouldn't tear her to pieces for what she had done.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the epilogue. Uuuh, I'll be tweaking canon again, so be prepared for one or two surprises.

_**One year later** _

  
Lord Stark looked at the sleeping baby in the cradle and shook his head in disbelief. Like so often. Little Branda's birthday was a particular jape of the gods, because she had been born on the same day like her niece Nymeria, over at Clegane keep.... and little Adara at Riverrun. People were already starting to call the new-born girls the “Triple Stars” all over Westeros.

  
Eddard thought back to the time twelve moons before. To when Sansa had disappeared with the Hound and had come back with him as a wedded couple after four agonising days, just in time for Lord Edmure's wedding, which had almost been postponed.

  
When Cat had arrived at Riverrun, only to learn that one of her daughters had been abducted by a “western wildling” they had been close to despair. Ned had come back, defeated, after two sleepless days on horseback and had sunk into his wife's arms, weeping.

  
Catelyn had blamed her brother Edmure of having accepted the Hound into the castle walls of Riverrun, rather than thinking her husband guilty of the catastrophe; yet, his conscience had been gnawing at him like a hungry direwolf.

  
Ned walked over to the cradle, gave the wetnurse a curt nod, then took Branda into his arms. The girl had dark hair, like himself and Arya.

 

  
Thinking of his middle girl... when her role in the catastrophe had become clear Lord Stark had not known what was worse. The unholy wedding, or that he had been fooled and lied at by his own, beloved daughter... it was something he still couldn't forgive. Sure, Arya was his daughter and she claimed she loved him... and deep down, he still loved her, too. Still. This episode stood between them now, and his trust had been shattered. It was likely the best she had gone to Clegane Keep with the newly-weds.

  
Lord Stark remembered how the Hound had dumped the flower crown into his lap at the end of the Tourney of the Hand; leaving Arya with the warrior had felt like an odd sort of repayment. Even more so, because he had tasked the scarred man with finding a husband for his tomboyish daughter.

  
These days, wild Arya was said to spar a lot with Lord Marbrand, another westerman, who had visited the Hound's keep. The lord had a decent reputation, but was way too old for Arya, Ned thought. Yet, the Warden of the North would not oppose the match, if it was what his middle daughter wanted. That a man like this Marbrand should accept her the way she was and should even encourage her manly quirks was a miracle. The ravens' messages had indicated that the two were getting along well, especially in the training pit, but that there had been no specific negotiations so far. Arya should have time to grow up some more. She had flowered a few weeks before, but by the looks of it, nobody was in a hurry.

  
Which was the opposite of Sansa's wedding. It was still beyond Lord Stark how Sansa had been able to fall for the Hound. Catelyn didn't comprehend her daughter's development any better and despised Lord Clegane.

  
They had been forced to accept the marriage, but relations with the couple remained strained, to say the least. Sansa's letters spoke of her sadness about this fact, but – incredible as it was – she appeared to be happy with the tall warrior.

  
Lord Stark shook his head and rubbed his nose against Branda's.

 

“I hope you won't give me any heartache when you're coming of age.”

  
The girl awoke.

  
“Bwaaaa...”

  
Ned gave her a little smile.

  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
Sandor Clegane smoothed back his hair. He had been sparring in the yard and was sweaty, smelly and dirty. His goodsister was in no better condition. As Sandor knew his wife, washbasins with fresh water and soap would have already been prepared for them.

 

"Gawawawa."

  
The scarred man smiled at the happy baby noises that were coming from his bedroom where the cradle was. Nymeria's character was as sweet and gentle as her mother's most of the time. Since the baby was sleeping in their private chambers and still demanding a lot of attention there were next to no intimacies with his wife, but Sandor didn't object. Half the time, he was too tired for a proper tumble anyway.

 

"Getting old, that's what I am," he thought to himself. "But the little she-wolf - she's almost a woman grown."

 

He turned his head and looked at Arya."You've become much better. Stronger, but your instincts are also getting sharper. You noticed my foot and didn't trip."

  
His goodsister looked up at him and scowled.

  
"What you were doing wasn't fair."

  
"No. But fighting in a battle isn't fair either. You want to stay alive, that's all that counts."

  
Arya looked ahead, gloomy.

 

"Thinking of Lord Marbrand again?"

  
Arya knitted her bows and gave a curt nod.

  
"I don't want to get married, but he's an acceptable solution. He's a good comrade and will let me do what I want. Honourable character, good fighter."

  
Sandor breathed in and nodded as well. There was no need to mention the other things again: that Lord Marbrand didn't like women and that Arya didn't like men in romantic terms. Cameraderie, yes, but not more.

  
During his visit, the copper-haired man and Arya had talked about many points in between sparring sessions - and seemingly also about shieldmates... and then, Arya seemed to have grasped something about herself. There had been a deep understanding between the two, and Lord Marbrand had realised quickly what it would mean to Arya, if she got caught in a marriage with someone who didn't understand her.

  
Since the two, Arya and Marbrand, were getting along so well as friends, they had started to negotiate a match according to their own rules. Sandor had seen Prince Renly and Ser Loras, back in King's Landing, and while he'd not understood this kind of relationship he had noticed it had been as loving as the one between himself and Sansa. Thus, he wished Arya and Lord Marbrand well for the future - that they'd support each other as comrades and would find love in other, private liaisons.

 

Sandor thought it was funny to see how much he had started to appreciate his wild little goodsister; as nerve-wrecking as she could be... she had instigated his and Sansa's marriage, something he'd always be grateful for. In exchange, he'd support her plans for her own future.

  
Much to Grayle's chagrin. Ever since Arya had threatened his balls the lad had been smitten with her. Aah, the fooleries of the youth...

  
... though if he was honest, he himself had not been much better the year before, considering how he had simply obeyed Arya, had trotted off with his little bird and had married her. The goodness that had followed ever after was still beyond words for him. He couldn't help but grin wider.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
Sansa came into her bedroom, because Arya had told her she'd find her husband there. True enough, Sandor was there - asleep and with their daughter right next to him.

  
Sansa smiled.

  
"Not afraid of squashing her any more, by the looks of it," she thought.

  
She remembered how he had freaked out during the birthing process. He had tried to stay downstairs, like any normal husband, but when time had dragged on, he had clawed his way into the birthing chamber - and he of all men, the big, bad Hound, the battle-seasoned warrior, had fainted like a maid on experiencing her labour. Sansa knew it was something he still was embarrassed of, and ever since Arya had got wind of it she kept teasing him about it mercilessly.

  
During their first week with Nymeria Sandor had been so afraid he'd barely dared to touch the little one, lest he might hurt her or something. Of course, he had camouflaged his fear with lots of growling and gruff behaviour - until Sansa, still exhausted and thin-skinned after the birth had showed him her bird's talons.

 

Now, Sansa was delighted to see everything fall into place. She hoped the trend would go on and extend to the relationship with her parents. As much happiness as she had experienced at Sandor's side it still weighed her down that her mother and father had been reserved towards her, Arya and Sandor ever since the hasty wedding. Besides, she longed to get to know her little sister Branda.

 

After Arya's wedding in the not too distant future, Nymeria would be old enough for travelling, and then, they'd visit Winterfell. Sansa doubted Lord Stark would travel south to witness Arya's wedding, but she didn't want to give up hope yet. It was another reason for the delay of her younger sister's big day: Sansa wanted some more time to send Ravens to her father. It was still possible that the birth of little Branda would make the Warden of the North more lenient.

 

Nymeria started to wriggle, and Sansa walked over. Sandor uttered a snore, which caused her to grin. Of late, he kept telling her that he hadn't been on a field campaign for too long, because his instincts had become less sharp. Given that he had not heard her already this was possibly true, but Sansa didn't want to have her husband back in battle, of course.

  
She stooped over Sandor and kissed him awake.

 

He blinked. And grinned in the typical, mischievous, teasing way he was adopting more and more.

  
"Fuck, couldn't you let me sleep? I was just having the naughtiest dream of you, something that's not quite possible with you yet again. Can't a man have his dreams?"

  
Sansa chuckled.

  
"No intimacies at the moment, no decent sleep - why, you're such a poor man."

  
Moments later, they were grappling with each other, playfully and laughing - until Nymeria protested.

 

"Damn me, " Sandor said, "she's already taking after your hellion of a sister, the way she's scolding me. Yes, I'm a poor man indeed."

  
"Pfft, a ruffian like you can handle that, and don't you tell me otherwise; it'll take more women around you to turn you into a gentleman."

  
"That's a futile project, a dog is a dog - but I'll be happy in the process of making more women."

  
"You! Why on earth did I ever marry you?"

  
Sandor's eyebrows rose, and he kept grinning.

  
"You couldn't withstand cracking the hardest nut with that tender heart of yours, that's why."

  
Sansa laughed.

  
"Guilty as charged. Guilty as charged."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the feedback in the past. I was overwhelmed with the amount of posts and hits and kudos. Thanks to everyone who took the time to read.


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